“You stay here. This is my house, and if I want to ask you in for a drink, I will.”
But both the others declined. “We’d sooner not. She may come back. And the spirit shop’s open now.” So, in the end, Bush had to give way; and, instead of seeing to his wounded, and investigating the whole affair, sat drinking himself into a sodden state, and listening to the vile insinuations of his civilian friends. There was no gratitude to Basil Hayle for having saved the lives of all of them, only bitter jealousy and resentment, coupled with a little fear, at least on the part of the civil officials, who, on the occasion of his former visit, had heard his candid opinion concerning the lives they led.
Meanwhile, out on the plaza the serjeant and half a dozen men were keeping guard over four prisoners. The rest of the Constabulary were scattered. Some were still feeding in Ah Lung’s store, some were sitting in the shade of the belfry smoking, but most had drifted away in search of sleeping places. But the serjeant and his little guard remained, for they had received those four prisoners from no less a person than Felizardo himself, who had handed them over with the words: “Tell your captain these must be hanged.” And the serjeant, who had been in the Spanish Service, had saluted, and had taken his prizes to the plaza, and trussed them up securely, and then had sat down to wait until it should please his captain to reappear. He knew who those prisoners were. One was Juan Vagas himself, whilst the other three had been majors in the insurrecto army.
Presently there came along the Presidente and many tao, with carts drawn by water-buffalo, and started collecting the dead. Eighty-one they found out of the hundred who had come in—which, as the serjeant said, was a good killing. And when that task was finished the Presidente chanced to notice those four trussed-up prisoners beside the belfry, and came to inspect them; but when he saw their faces he seemed to shiver a little, and a quick glance passed between him and Juan Vagas. Then he spoke in the voice which had so often made the tao themselves shiver, and pay fines without asking for receipts.
“What are you doing with those men? If they are prisoners, why have you not handed them over to me, so that I can put them in gaol? I will send my police for them at once.”
But the serjeant cared for no Presidentes; moreover, he had seen that glance of recognition between Juan Vagas and the official. “These are the prisoners of the Constabulary,” he said. “They remain here until I receive orders from my captain.”
The Presidente used unofficial language. “I will send my police for them,” he retorted, and departed, storming.
When the serjeant saw a dozen or so ragged civil police approaching, he nodded to his men. “Load,” he said curtly, and the police halted forthwith.
Once more, the Presidente came forward; it was a matter of absolutely vital importance for him to get possession of those prisoners, even if, as was possible, they did happen to escape during the night. “Where is your captain?” he demanded.
The serjeant pointed with his revolver towards the Bushes’ house. “In there,” he said.